


Murderer's Row: Flashback - Debt

by ViolentMedic



Series: Murderer's Row - Prison!AU [4]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Also Physical Health Issues, Alternate Universe - Prison, Emetophobia, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Past Torture, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 11:38:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10098935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolentMedic/pseuds/ViolentMedic
Summary: "When I was in that basement, one thought kept me going. The idea that if I just managed to get out of that basement... then everything would be fine. I knew where the escape was, even if I didn't know how to get out. If I could just get through that door... I would be free. I could move on and I could pretend it never happened."As it turns out... that was bullshit."What happened to Wash after the basement.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this spoils significant parts of Volume 2, particularly concerning the flashbacks. And the framing device for this fic occurs in Chapter Twenty-Three of Volume 2 (the second-last chapter of that volume) so I wouldn't advise reading it until you're up to that. If you have not read Murderer's Row at all, this will be a deeply confusing fic.

When Wash was sixteen, he had needed two hundred bucks for a reason he could no longer remember. He hoped it had been important.

There had been this man... a friend of a friend. Large with a pot belly. Smelt like pot all the time and shaved weird patterns into the side of his head. Wash couldn't remember his name, either, except that it had been some kind of dumb nickname.

This man had said, 'I will give you two hundred dollars if you take a few packages to my friend.'

Wash knew it was bad news, but he'd needed the money. It was only one job.

One job turned into two. Two into three. On it snowballed, on and on. Until a woman followed Wash during one of these package runs. She almost lost him, because Wash knew the back ways really well and knew how to move quietly, or when to move into crowded areas instead.

He wasn't good enough to lose her along the way. But good enough to impress her. And after she followed him to the man who received these packages, and put a bullet in his head, she turned to Wash and offered him a new job.

Even at sixteen, Wash wasn't dumb enough to argue with a woman covered in blood that matched her hair.

 

* * *

 

_"When I was in that basement, one thought kept me going. The idea that if I just managed to get out of that basement... then everything would be fine. I knew where the escape was, even if I didn't know how to get out. If I could just get through that door... past Omega and Gamma and Meta and the rest of them... I would be free. I could move on and I could pretend it never happened._

_"As it turns out... that was bullshit._

_"I don't know how I escaped. But I did. The first thing I remember outside of that basement was waking up in the hospital."_

 

* * *

 

When Wash first opened his eyes the lights weren't on. Naturally, he thought he was still in the basement. Still chained to the pipe. Still unable to move. It took him a long time to realise the differences between then and now.

He was lying on something incredibly soft. In retrospect, that hospital bed hadn't been that comfortable. But after three months of being chained to a pipe and stuck on a rough, wooden floor where the only cushioning was scraps of food and occasionally his own feces, it was like lying on a cloud. Pure, soft heaven.

Which terrified the shit out of Wash.

He thought it was another trick. It was reminiscent of some of the things Gamma would do. While Omega tortured him the most, and the most overtly, the psychological warfare was mostly done by Gamma. Gamma would throw Wash little luxuries, only to ruin them in some way. He would give Wash extra water, only to put salt in it so it would burn Wash's gums. Once he threw Wash a pillow and, desperate for anything comfortable, Wash had clung to it like it was his first-born child. Then Gamma would take it away again and the basement would feel even worse than it had before the pillow, because the pillow had reminded him of what comfort was like.

So Wash took in the softness and the lack of tightness around his neck and wrists and ankles, and thought it was that trick all over again. But he just lay still anyway because when he tried to move his arms and legs sharp pains ran through them.

And then there had been movement from outside the room, a door had swung open, and suddenly light had flooded in. A white beam that hurt Wash's eyes so badly that it seemed a better option to lift his arm and endure the pangs in his shaking joints just to block out that light.

It was through doing this that Wash saw his own hand for the first time in three months. He lost focus on everything else. The mystery of where he was or what new torment this was, the voices now coming from outside and the man in the white coat who had just walked in, accompanied by other people who made a lot of noise and fuss, all of that faded to the wayside.

Because Wash did not recognise these hands. He moved the one he'd used to block the light somewhat closer to his eyes. At the same time, with much struggle, he lifted his other hand. He stared at them both, opening and closing them despite how much it hurt just to make sure they were his.

Wash used to have strong hands. Strong hands with muscle and callouses from wielding weapons each and every day. Hands that had never been as strong as Carolina's, same as the rest of him, but they'd been good enough. He'd been good enough.

The hands he stared at now looked like someone had stretched old, faded canvas over a skeleton. He could practically see the shape of his bones, and his skin was scarred and scabbed all over. There was barely a square inch of skin that wasn't damaged in some way, and there was an odd pattern to how the scars and scabs formed in neat little rows and curves. The hands shook because it took so much effort just to hold them up.

Wash stared at these strange hands for a full thirty seconds. And then he let out a scream. Because those weren't his hands, they couldn't be his hands, Gamma and Omega and Meta must have done something, this was just another trick, another trick, always another trick... And then the people in the white coats pinned him down and he couldn't recall if they injected him or not... maybe he just ran out of energy... but he soon passed out again.

 

* * *

 

_"I stayed at the hospital for two months. I stayed at the mental institution for another six._

_"I don't remember everything clearly. Just scattered memories here and there, much like what I remember of the basement. I know I was pretty crazy the entire time I was in the hospital, but they didn't want to move me to the mental institution until I was at a healthy weight. They couldn't even try putting me on medication until then._

_"I remember seeing enemies in every shadow and tricks in everything else. Some days I would lash out at whoever came in to take care of me. Other days, I would just lie there and resign myself to what I assumed was further imprisonment and trickery. A lot of the time, I woke up exactly as I had on that first day. Not remembering anything that happened before, at least not that time. I went through the process of staring at my hands and freaking the hell out quite a few times._

_"When they took me to the mental institution, they started testing some medication on me to see what would make me less... well, batshit psycho. I couldn't list for you all the combinations they tried. I remember my mood fluctuating a lot, though._

_"Some days I would feel incredibly depressed. Other days, I'd be angrier and more terrified than ever. There were a few days where I couldn't stop sobbing even though I wasn't even that sad. I had absolutely no control over my emotions or thoughts or anything. The only reason I didn't blab what had happened to me out to the doctors—something that would have gotten me assassinated in my sleep if the Director caught wind of it—was because I still thought they were in on it._

_"Still... things didn't stay that way forever. One day, after the doctors set me on this combination of meds... thorazine, depakote, Abilify. You probably don't know what any of that means, Doc? ...Right, that was uncalled for, especially with you actually listening and... nevermind. Anyway, they set me on that._

_"Little bit later, I remember staring at the window. It'd been a miserable day. Grey sky. Raining in that half-assed kind of way. But I saw that through the little window and had this weird moment of clarity. 'I'm not in a basement. It's raining. I'm actually free.' Well, not really, seeing as I was still restricted to the mental hospital, but I was free from the basement. That was the first time I remember really processing that fact._

_"I still had bad days after that. A lot of them. It wasn't like a switch flipped and I was suddenly better again. But I did get better. I stopped thinking everything was a trick. I became aware enough that even when I hit a bad day and my brain started to panic and tell me that this could all be a trick... that maybe the doctor who always asked how I was doing was really Omega or that patient was Epsilon playing a trick on me... I knew it was just my brain._

_"I didn't like the mental institution. They often tried to make me talk to people who I had no interest in talking to. Other patients. Doctors who would keep asking me about if I was having any hallucinations or delusions or any paranoid, confused feelings... I always said no, once I was aware enough to know my brain was just playing tricks. I associated with others the bare minimum that I needed to convince the doctors I was doing better._

_"A few months on, the doctors were almost ready to let me leave. And I'd been ready to leave for months. Then I received my first visitor since I'd been found."_

 

* * *

 

Wash had been staring out the window again. Tiny, white clouds drifting lazily across a light blue sky that day. While he'd been staring, he'd been playing with his fingers. They weren't as terrifyingly bony as they'd been when he was first placed in hospital. But they still were faded and scarred, and still lacked the muscle they'd once had.

He was touching his fingers and absently noting how different they felt. While he was doing this, and looking at the sky, a door shut behind him. He assumed it was one of the doctors until they spoke in an abnormally cheery voice that didn't fit the place.

"Hello, Agent Washington! I've heard so much about you!"

Wash turned around quickly, because that was the first time anyone had used the term 'agent' in this hospital. The woman wore a doctor's coat over purple scrubs, and carried a briefcase. She beamed at him. Wash blinked at her for a few moments, then looked upwards at the corners of the room, looking to see if there were any cameras. The woman laughed.

"No cameras. The Director made sure of that."

"...Are you really one of his?"

"Sure am! Dr. Grey at your service. You probably don’t remember me. I did visit you a couple of times before you were transferred here, but you weren’t doing well at the time. I mostly provide discreet medical services, but there's been a lot of concern about you and, honestly, your injuries and case is just really interesting. Can I see the scars? I’ve seen glimpses but I just really want to see up close, if you don't mind?" Wash reluctantly tugged his sleeves back, letting her see the scars. She let out a long breath. "Wow, those are nasty. I genuinely wish I was your doctor."

"...Right." Wash pulled his sleeves back down. "The Director made sure there were no cameras? How?"

"Oh, sweetie, you know the Director. You know he likes to have eyes everywhere. We have people here. Just like in the police force. You have no idea how much effort we've put into keeping your situation as low-profile as possible. Wouldn't wrong the wrong people to come sniffing about and slit your throat while you're sleeping, now would we?" she chirped.

Wash looked at her, then snorted and looked back out the window. "You here to kill me? So I don't leak out any important information?"

"Of course not! That'd be such a sticky situation. Having you turn up dead in the hospital with no sign of what could have killed you? After all, you're under nearly constant surveillance by the guards. Of course, if you had said anything problematic—"

"Why are you here, then?" Wash interrupted.

"Oooh, you're hostile. I'd love to psychoanalyze you, but it seems like the hospital beat me to all the good parts. Besides, why wouldn't the Director want to check up on his employees?"

"I would have liked to be checked on earlier," Wash said quietly. "Before the hospital became necessary."

"I..." Dr. Grey's bright smile briefly faded. "Yes. I'm sorry about that. You were presumed dead for a while. We didn't know you were even alive until you turned up a while back."

Wash let out another bitter snort, still not turning away from the window. "Fine. Tell me why you're here."

"I told you, there's a lot of concern for you!"

"I seriously doubt that."

"Doubt it if you want, but it's true! But I'm also here for more official reasons, I'll admit. First part!" Dr. Grey opened her briefcase with a click. "I need a recount of everything you experienced! The ambush, how it went wrong, the details of your three-month disappearance and what led you to escape. There's a lot of interest in it." She removed a recorder from her briefcase, turned it on and placed it on the bed in front of Wash. "Start."

Wash dutifully recited everything he could remember. He omitted any emotional details or any details that he felt wouldn't help, boiling it down to what he could remember other people doing. He left out any information he had given them, trying to make it sound like he hadn't broken under torture. Let alone so easily. There were many blanks, and whenever he arrived at a point where it sounded like the information would have been useful if he could remember it, Dr. Grey's smile faded again.

He had to stop a few times. It got hard to talk when the more painful memories came up. But Grey would coo at him until he continued talking, and as friendly as Grey seemed... Wash knew what it meant to disobey the Director, or any of his workers.

"...and then I don't remember anything before waking up here," Wash finished. "I don't remember how I escaped or where I escaped from, so that's not something I can help with. ...We done?"

"That was quite a story! Oooh, I can't wait until we track those torturers down. I've dabbled a little myself in it—doctor work isn't all I do." Dr. Grey laughed and quickly added, "Don't worry! I'm not going to torture you, silly."

"Yay," Wash said flatly.

"Now, second order of business!"

Dr. Grey removed a sheaf of paper and cleared her threat before reading out the contents. This time, she spoke in a slightly monotonic way that indicated that she'd repeated this many times before.

"Agent David Washington, due to serious concerns with your mental health, you have been certified as Article Twelve. You have been declared unfit for duty, and thus it is my sad duty to announce that we must let you go."

"You couldn't have waited until I was out of hospital?" Wash muttered.

"Shh, I'm talking." Dr. Grey retrieved a form from her sheaf of paper and slid it towards him. "As the Director has had to pay your hospital bills in order to keep you alive and sane until we could get the full story, he will require compensation for the fact. This form lays out the payment plan, in the form of weekly payments, as well as the interest that will be applied in exchange for the inconvenience. It's really rather similar to what the hospital might set up!"

"Is it?" Wash muttered as he pulled the form towards him.

"Well, apart from some extra interest for the trouble of covering up the illegal nature of your situation, but really, it could have been sooo much worse. Right? I mean, you're not dead!"

Wash continued to study the form. "...I have no idea what the cost is going to be. I... don't know how long I've been here."

"You have been here six months," Dr. Grey supplied helpfully. "And you were kept at the hospital the two months before that."

"...Shit." Wash looked away from the form. He nervously touched his jaw. He was still missing half his teeth. He'd adjusted to it, although he still had trouble not dribbling on everything while trying to eat. He wanted dental fixtures or implants or something to cover it up, so that no-one would point and go 'what the fuck is wrong with your mouth.' But it didn't sound like they'd be affordable. He was pretty sure he couldn't pay the Director back for... for... how much was that? Hundreds of thousands of dollars, if he'd been there that long, plus interest...

"Just hypothetically..." Wash said quietly. "What happens if I can't pay? How am I supposed to pay? I won't have a job if you—"

"You'll have to find a way, Agent Washington," Dr. Grey said gently.

"But if I can't?"

"You know how the Director works. If you don't pay, same as if you say anything about the work you did for us, and you'll go the same way as Agent Georgia."

"...What happened to Agent Georgia?"

"Trust me. You don't want to know."

"I really do, though."

"Well, I've found that mystery helps maintain the fear. Don't you think?" Dr. Grey beamed at him again. "Oh, we don't want to kill you if we don't have to! There's people who appreciate what you did for this organization, and we're really more interested in the money and all. It cost a lot of money to keep you alive and restore your sanity—so interesting to read the reports on it. You know the Director's policies!"

Wash signed the form. It was either that or... well, whatever happened to Georgia. Dr. Grey took back the form.

"Excellent! The hospital will allow you to leave once they've made sure you're at an adequate level of health. You'll be supplied with enough medication to continue on—you'll have to pay for your own medication from now on, of course, sorry about that—and the hospital will set you where you need to go after this. It was great to talk to you, after hearing so much!"

She packed away her papers and stood to leave.

"Can I ask one more question?" Wash asked.

"Sure!"

"Carolina's really dead, isn't she?"

Dr. Grey's smile vanished entirely. She looked away from Wash, gazing out the window at the clouds drifting across the sky. She let out a long sigh.

"...Yes. I'm... I'm sorry."

She left.

 

* * *

 

_"So... now I was sane, but I was absolutely drowning in debt in exchange for that sanity. Still, I thought it wouldn't be so bad. I just had to find a decent job and work hard enough to earn the money to pay him back. Easy. Or so I thought._

_"Turns out not many people want to hire someone who's been in a mental institution. No matter how well I presented myself, how much effort I put into looking as sane as possible, they took one look at my history... and my teeth... and their minds would be made up._

_"I scraped together whatever money I could from any savings or belongings I had left. All I kept was a gun and knife that I'd used sometimes during my old job, just because I felt safer having them on my person. Didn't even have ammo, though. But everything else, I sold. I meant to see if maybe there would be enough for the cheapest of false teeth, but there was so much more to pay for. And I didn't want to take help from anyone else. Not the Director. Not anyone. So I tried to move my lips as little as possible while I talked through all those interviews. I could get some teeth once I had a job, but I couldn't get a job without those teeth._

_"There was too much to pay for. And the priorities turned into 'paying the Director back,' 'the medication that kept me sane,' 'food' and 'other things.' I found out pretty fast that a place to live counted as 'other things.' Wasn't too long before I ended up on the streets._

_"Eh, don't look at me like that, Doc. It wasn't that bad. Well, the actual sleeping outside part. Sleeping inside made me feel very claustrophobic at the time. All I could think was 'what if the lights go out? What if I lose my keys and lock myself in and then the lights go out?' All these ridiculous scenarios that would lead me to being stuck in the dark. Yes, it was dark outside. But I could feel the cold air and the breeze and it would remind me that I was free all over again._

_"Still, there wasn't anything nice about living on the streets. I had to fight with other homeless people regularly just to keep my favourite spot in an alleyway. Even then, I got bullied out repeatedly by a ginger cat with a face that looked like it'd hit a brick wall._

_"And of course, there was the hunger that came with not being able to afford anything. If I ran out of money, food was always the first thing to go. Do you know the depths a man will sink to for a few bites of cheap fast food, Doc? Because I do._

_"There was one thing I wouldn't do at the time. I wouldn't beg._

_"I tried once. I tried to panhandle in a busy street once with a foam cup I'd found in the trash. But I couldn't swallow my pride. I couldn't stomach the looks they gave me. Revulsion. Pity. I knew they saw me as a drugged-out hobo, and it hurt to admit that they were right._

_"It was easier to go through trash cans than it was to beg. It was also easier to bully people into giving me what I wanted. I don't know when I started thinking it was better than begging, but... I'd push other homeless people out of their food and sleeping areas. Usually the ones who couldn't fight back, especially as I got frailer. I kept my old gun. Occasionally I would use it to scare off people from my sleeping spot, but mostly I would ambush civilians with it and get money at gunpoint. It didn't have ammo, but that wasn't important. I'm not proud of what I did. But it paid enough to keep me from starving._

_"That was how I met York for the first time. I mean... I didn't know it was York. At the time he was just some guy who cut across alleyways that intelligent people avoided like the plague._

_"Normally I avoided him, too. I just stayed in the shadows as he passed. Probably because he wore the uniform for prison guards and I didn't want to go kicking someone like that. Not casually, at least._

_"But... well... a year onward, I wasn't doing so well. He walked past holding a taco. It was enough to tempt me into mugging him."_

 

* * *

 

Wash used to be stealthy. But being stealthy was difficult nowadays. Now the best he could do was shamble quietly like some fucked up zombie.

Just one year of homelessness, and he looked almost as much of a wreck as he had when he emerged from that basement. After all the trouble the hospital had put into getting him to a healthy weight again, he'd gone back to skin and bones due to the lack of food. Maybe because of the weight loss, his medication wasn't affecting him right. The side effects had gotten worse. He experienced tremors and sometimes he couldn't quite control what his muscles were doing. He bruised far too easily and he was constantly tired.

He knew he should have tried to see a doctor. But he didn't want to add onto his debt. That would just make everything even worse.

He tried to follow the man holding a taco with stealth, but he kept bumping into the walls and that was ruining the effect. He gripped the gun tightly and pointed it at the man's back before speaking.

"Stop where you are. Fork over any money you've got on you," Wash said, wavering on the spot as he attempted to sound intimidating and in control.

The man, who Wash would later know as York, raised both his hands and turned around. He was still holding the taco as he did so.

"Oh? We might have a problem. I, uh—"

"You better not have a fucking problem or I'm going to blow your head off!" Wash snarled. He didn't like it when they started babbling or complaining. He was hungry. He needed food. He needed money to pay the Director and to buy more of his medication. He just wanted this over with so he could get on with... with whatever he was doing.

"Easy, man. I just don't have money on me, is all. I spent the last of it on this taco. It's kind of a bummer, right?" The nonchalance that York handled the situation with was starting to really piss Wash off.

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"You can always check. Look, I'm sure you don't want to kill me so—"

"You don't know that." Sure, it was true. But it didn't work much on fear if the victim knew he was safe.

"Your hands are shaking. I can see that."

Wash glanced at the gun barrel, which was indeed shaking. He glared back at York with even more anger than before. He didn't like having his deficiencies pointed out. He didn't like being reminded of everything he was that was shit.

"How about you shut up about what you don't know anything about." He had to wipe his mouth at this point. He could smell the taco and it was making him dribble, something that was hard enough to prevent during normal circumstances. "Give me the taco, then."

York stepped back a little, automatically holding the taco a little closer.

"But I—"

"GIVE ME THE FUCKING TACO!" Wash shrieked at him, stepping forward and waving the gun at him.

"Whoa! Alright! Alright, just..."

York held it out and Wash snatched it from his hands like a magpie before bolting.

He didn't stop until he was a couple of alleyways a way, at which point he crouched down and devoured it as fast as possible. His fingers were clumsy and a lot of it went into the tangled, greasy beard he hadn't managed to get rid of in a while.

 

* * *

 

_"I didn't realise he was Carolina's husband for a while. I didn't even realise it the day I saw him in the graveyard._

_"It was strange that we'd never met there before. Because it turns out not many people visited her grave at all, especially not as often as York and I did. Of course York did, that was no surprise. Weekly, at least for a while. And so did I._

_"It was partly out of respect. Carolina was my boss. She was the best fighter I'd ever met. And she was my friend. I missed her. It was also partly out of guilt. I felt like I could have done something to stop her death. I still feel like I could have. If I'd just been a little bit stronger... a little bit faster... but all the regrets in the world wouldn't send me back in time._

_"As well as all that... I had this habit of talking to her. I don't believe in the afterlife or anything... but somehow, it made me feel better to speak to someone I knew, even if she was six feet under the earth._

_"So each week, I'd go and tidy the grave up. Pull any weeds. Leave some flowers that I'd steal from a public garden or someone's front yard on the way there. It was the only thing I did that didn't revolve around survival._

_"Once I was there, placing the flowers down and talking about how the ginger cat kicked me out of my area again... and suddenly York was there, holding a brown paper bag and watching me. I didn't even give him a chance to speak. I just took one look at him and ran off again. I thought he'd have me arrested. And all I could wonder was 'why the hell would he turn up there?'_

_"Should have made the connection, but I didn't._

_"The third time..._

_"The third time he saved my life. Even if he never quite knew it."_

 

* * *

 

A couple of months later, Wash faced a choice that was even more difficult than whether to keep paying for essentials or keep paying for a place to live.

He couldn't afford both his usual payment to the Director and to pay for his medication, which was running out fast. Giving up his medication cold turkey was something he'd been told repeatedly to never, ever do. But if he didn't pay the Director, he would probably be killed. There were no second chances with him.

He would have eased off slowly if he had time, but he had kept insisting to himself that he could find the money in time. He could, he could, he could.

He repeated this to himself as he got frailer. He repeated this to himself the day that someone he was trying to mug called his bluff on the gun, and they beat him up and took it. He repeated it to himself as he tried to mug people with a knife instead, but got chased off by a girl who pulled a gun on him in response.

He kept repeating it to himself until he was looking at a couple of scattered pills.

He still picked paying the Director back. He didn't want to end up like Georgia.

It was a mistake. He knew the withdrawal would be bad, but he didn't know how bad.

Once his body realised it wasn't getting its usual supply of medication, Wash got incredibly dizzy. He shook. His stomach felt like it had been taken out, chewed up and then spat right back in. The side effects he'd had when he was on the drugs didn't get worse, but they didn't get better.

It felt so bad that Wash dragged himself to the streets and attempted to beg for money. He was so desperate that it overwhelmed his usual pride. He couldn't do much while there except flatten out his bag (he hadn't found a foam cup to use this time) and curl up against a wall.

A few people threw in coins. Most ignored him.

He stayed there all day, shaking and trying to ignore how hungry he was. He needed food. He hadn't eaten in days. But moving made his stomach turn and it was so difficult... it took him until the sun was starting to go down and the sky was darkening for him to crawl over to the nearest trash can and dig through it. Normally he tried to do this in private. Right now he didn't care.

Then he found the holy grail of trash can food. A barely touched burger in a fast food wrapper. None of the rest of the garbage had even touched the food. He grinned weakly and tore the paper off, scarfing it down right there and ignoring the occasional disturbed glance from people passing by. It was like Christmas.

Then he realised that finding a burger in the trash was the highlight of the last few months. Abruptly, his mood plummeted.

Was that as good as life would be for him from now on? Occasionally finding food in between bouts of sickness and withdrawal? Wash's grin faded as he chewed on the cold meat.

This was really it, wasn't it.

 

* * *

 

_"The basement was the worst thing that ever happened to me, of course. But I don't think I was ever closer to death than I was when I was eating that burger._

_"It wasn't just because Omega and Gamma put effort into making sure I lived through the torture. It was because I knew there was a way out. Even when I lost all hope that I could escape, I knew what I had to do to escape. Leave the basement. I thought if I could get out of that basement, everything would turn out alright. And that kept me going._

_"But I couldn't see an escape out of my situation as I was chewing on that burger._

_"All I'd done was get weaker and weaker, and if I couldn't climb my way out of the gutter and back into being a functional human being back when I was still strong, how could I manage it now? If I went to the hospital or back to the mental institution, I would add to my debt and just end up back on the streets again. I couldn't find a job when I still had muscle and sanity, so how could I now that I was off my medication and made of bones?_

_"All I could think was 'what was the point?’ Sure, I think a lot of those thoughts came from the withdrawal. But they'd been lingering for a while. I'd just only realised it then. Another moment of clarity. This one very, very bad._

_"I wanted to talk to someone. And Carolina was the only person I knew. So once I'd swallowed the last bite of my meal, I staggered away towards the cemetery."_

 

* * *

 

"Hey."

Wash's voice cracked a lot. He didn't use it much nowadays. He half-sat, half-collapsed in front of the grave.

"So, guess what happened today. I found almost a full burger in the trash, and it was wrapped up and everything. It was basically Christmas. Suppose someone didn't like it, but believe me... after... how many days has it been... doesn’t really matter. But it tasted like gourmet cooking."

Between gaps in his speech, Wash was absently trying to dig out the little bits of meat still stuck in his teeth with his tongue, savoring the flavour. It momentarily distracted him from how dizzy and exhausted he was.

"So, I was wondering... I was wondering what you'd do if you were me. I mean... I feel like you would have a way out. I can just see you rolling your eyes at me because I'm such a... such an idiot. I’m sure you would have found your way out of that basement before... before they could... you know." Wash gestured at himself.

"I... I don't even know what I'm trying to say. I don't even know what I'm doing here. I'm talking to a corpse and a pile of dirt. I just... don't..."

Wash stopped talking. He made a move to get up. Fatigue intervened and instead he just flopped over and fell asleep in front of Carolina's grave.

When he woke up, it was pitch black and he couldn't move. He just lay there on his side, cheek pressed against the dirt. The world spun even though he stayed still. Spinning and spinning until—

Luckily, Wash was far enough from the grave that he didn't vomit all over it. It was also lucky that he was on his side. He wasn't sure if he could have turned over if he'd been on his back. He felt the vomit trickle into his beard and puddle near his face, yet he still couldn't move. He tried to wipe it away with his sleeve but didn't do a good job.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered. "I'll clean it up, Carolina, I... I didn't mean to mess up your—hurghh." He dry heaved this time as he attempted to sit up, before collapsing back onto his side. "I'm sorry for vomiting on you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for... for everything, I'm really sorry." He repeated himself as if it would fix everything. As if apologizing would bring her back to life and rewind time to before the ambush that went so horribly wrong.

It was so dark. He could make out the shapes of the nearby tombstones, but that was all. He couldn't feel the nighttime breeze. It was like the darkness was a physical weight that pressed down on him. His fingers felt tingly and his mouth ached, on top of tasting like half-digested beef patties.

He thought he could hear a familiar growling.

Wash clasped his hands over his ears and shut his eyes, but the snarls persisted as if the Meta was standing right behind them. It wasn't real. He knew it wasn't real. He didn't need the medication to know it wasn't real. He just had to ignore it. Ignore it until someone found him. That would have to happen soon, right? The undertaker would come around and—

_"No-one is coming for you, Washington."_

Gamma's voice, as clear as could be, rang through his head. Wash wasn't entirely convinced that it was in his head this time. It felt too real.

_"You are nothing but a drain on resources. A waste of space. You mean nothing to anyone, so why would they even give you a thought?"_

"I know," Wash murmured under his breath. "I know, I know..." His breaths came out short and damp. He could feel tears trickling down his face and wondered absently when he had started crying.

He laid there all night. The shakes got worse. He was left with nothing but vivid memories, his own thoughts and the stink of vomit.

That night, he really wanted to die. It was the only escape he could see.

The memories and voices didn't fade when the sun came up. Wash blocked his ears and tried to make enough noise to drown them out, but nothing worked. He listened to Gamma lecture him all night, never sure if it was a memory he couldn’t place or just madness, and then in the morning...

 _"You're pathetic, Washington. You're even getting boring to torture. I didn't think that was possible!"_ Omega this time. _"What happened to fighting back? I miss when you had spirit. You're no fun now."_

Unlike Gamma's observations, which drained him entirely, Omega's imaginary taunts instilled a weird kind of energy. Wash pressed his hands against the ground and made himself sit up. He dry heaved a few more times, but he managed to start crawling away. He managed to get to his feet. He managed to stumble out of the cemetery.

He looked a sight. Blinking at the sun and wavering on his feet like a drunk man about to have a nap in a ditch. Long, greasy hair. Long, greasy beard with bits of dried vomit, crumbs and dried spit caked into it. Clinging to a bag with holes in it, which only contained a few empty medicine bottles and a knife that he had last used to try and murder that ginger cat that kept pushing him around. Not out of hatred but because he had been so hungry that it had sounded like a good idea.

It was early and foggy. Wash stared at the road and waited until he could see headlights. He was so focused on that that he didn't pay any attention to his surroundings.

He saw headlights moving towards him. He couldn't see the actual car yet. That didn't matter. He knew a car was coming.

All he had to do was step in front of it. That would fix everything.

Wash put one foot out onto the road, ready to run in front of the car once it would be too late for him to brake in time.

Someone grasped him by the upper arm before he could.

A familiar voice spoke up.

"Hey, mugger guy. You forgot to look both ways."

Wash blinked and turned to see the man he'd stolen a taco off. The one who'd found him at Carolina's grave.

"Huh?" Wash muttered, because he didn't understand why the man was there. Or why he was addressing him in a friendly, casual manner.

"You look terrible. ...Did you throw up on Carolina's grave? Well, next to it. I noticed it was messy and I saw you in the distance and, well... here we are. Drink too much? Sick?"

Wash just stared back, still confused.

"Oh, right, where are my manners." York reached out to shake Wash's hand. When he noticed the sleeves and hands were covered in vomit, he reconsidered and clapped Wash on the shoulder instead. Wash almost fell over from the force. "I'm York. Not sure who you are, but—"

"York?"

It all clicked together then. He'd heard Carolina talk about him occasionally and heard the brief conversations Carolina had with him on the phone during work. All Wash could think was, 'of all people to mug.'

"Right! Did Carolina mention me? I figure you know her. Uh, this probably isn't a good time to talk about that, I guess. Seriously, can I help you? You seem—"

"No! No, I'm... no, this is fine. I'm fine. I was just—" Wash brushed York off and made to leave. He didn't make it two steps. The little scrap of energy and resolve he'd summoned to make it this far had been used up, and the dizziness returned in full force. He put his foot down wrong and fell over.

"Jeez, okay, you are definitely not well." York helped him to his own feet, despite Wash trying to insist that he was fine. He would be fine if York would just let him walk in front of a fucking car. "I'll give you a lift to the hospital."

"I don't—"

"Fuck you, I'm taking you there."

"But I threw up near Carolina's grave, I should... I should go clean... didn't want to disrespect—"

"Oh, she's a tough gal. She can stand a bit of puke on her dirt. I'm sure she'd yell more at letting a friend of hers—I assume—collapse in the streets."

 

* * *

 

_"Of course, they restricted me to the hospital again the moment they got a good look at me. I received so many lectures about not calling a doctor sooner and going cold turkey on my meds and all that. Plus, I needed to be a healthy weight again before they either set me back on the old medication or put me on a new batch._

_"I just ignored them. I didn't really care. All it meant was another pile of debt I would owe someone, whether it be the Director or the hospital. The only difference was the hospital wouldn't threaten me with the fate of Agent Georgia._

_"The entire stay would have been exactly the same... had it not been for York constantly turning up, plopping down next to my hospital bed and chattering like we were the best of friends and not people who'd met because I threatened to blow his head off._

_"I didn't talk back much at first."_

 

* * *

 

"You don't talk much, do you."

"..."

"That's alright. I'm used to people not talking. Or being ignored. Like, my sister-in-law, Tex... every time I visit her she's like 'York, for the last time, stop picking open my front door, just fucking knock.' And I'm all 'why you gotta be like that?' And then she'll ignore me for a few weeks. Or punch me in the dick."

"..."

"I don't know if she likes me very much. We never talked much when I was married to Carolina. Her and Tex never got along. Couldn't figure out why, they were birds of a feather. But maybe stubbornness just ran in the family or something."

"..."

"Well, she's still family. Sort of. Ex-family. But not ex-family in an 'oh I hate that family' way. You know, their dad is the one who got all of that. He was a dick. You know what I mean, David?"

"..."

"You got family?"

"..."

"Is that a no or do you just not want to talk?"

"..."

"Hint taken. But I'll be back tomorrow. You know, in case I got the hint wrong."

 

* * *

 

The first time Wash talked back since his protests at being driven to the hospital was a couple of weeks onwards.

"So, the warden we got now is completely nuts. And he's divided the prison into 'reds' and 'blues' and is showing blatant favoritism towards the reds. It's insane. Plus he won't tell us his real name. He just insists on being called 'Sarge.' And Flowers just goes along with it!"

"..."

"I know! It's totally mental. It's like some kind of simulated army except everyone's really not into it. I think some of the reds used it as an excuse to beat up this one blue guy... killed his little brother amongst other things, and child killers are considered bad even for prison guys so most of the prison hates his guts. Anyway, David, as I was saying—"

"Wash."

"Oh my god, you spoke. ...Wash? Is it that obvious I haven't showered yet today? I just got off a shift, man."

"No. That's my name."

"The nurse said it was David."

"People call me Wash."

"Alright, noted. Wash has a nice ring to it anyway."

 

* * *

 

Eventually, the conversation became two-sided.

"You like drinking, Wash?"

"Can't say I've done it much. I did a couple of times with co-workers. Um, not Carolina. She said she had better things to do."

"Co-workers! So that's how you know her."

Wash inwardly slapped himself for giving it away.

"Actually, I remember that now. She'd mention you over the phone sometimes. She said you weren't too bright and sucked at paintball."

"...Yeah. That sounds right."

"Anyway, what you should have suggested was to go to a nightclub. Carolina always preferred nightclubs. There was this one club. Club Errera. That's where we met. Man, she had moves... So, what did you do at the office?"

Oh shit. Wash couldn't remember what his 'official' job had been. It'd been too long since he'd had to think about it, he'd never really had to say it because no-one had ever asked and it had only ever been put on forms and his memory was still kind of addled. He looked at York, and at his prison guard uniform, and blurted out, "Security guard."

"Really? And she still made you get coffee for her like you were an intern or something?" Wash was afraid for a moment that he'd fucked up until York added, with a tone of amusement, "Sounds like her."

 

* * *

 

Two months and Wash was back to a healthy weight and on adjusted medication. Now that he was in no more danger of collapsing dead in the street, he was free to leave. Or rather he had to, since he couldn't afford to stay.

Wash was feeling rather sour about this fact. He knew he would have to eventually, and that every day he was in here just added debt. But he'd actually been semi-happy for a while. At least during York's visits. Now that he was healthy again, at least relatively speaking, York would probably feel that his duty to help a co-worker of Carolina's was over and move on. Wash wouldn't blame him if he did.

York was hanging out the front of the hospital when Wash wandered out. He was holding Wash's hole-filled bag, but had wrapped it in another bag.

"I forgot to give your things back. Well, okay, it's more that I didn't want to tell the hospital you were packing a really nasty-looking knife."

"Right. Well, uh... I'm sure you have things to do, so I'll just—"

"Dude, I didn't wait out here for nothing. I'll give you a lift. Where you heading?"

"Uh."

"You can tell me on the way. Come on."

York grabbed his arm and started cheerfully dragging him away. Wash felt like he was being kidnapped and wondered, briefly, if York had some strange ulterior motive. Whether he was friendly to people for a few months and then kidnapped them and took them back to his lair and ate them or something.

No. Too out there.

Still, his constant friendliness was freaking Wash the hell out. Even if it wasn't entirely unwelcome.

York twirled his keys around his finger and hummed under his breath.

"Not going to pick your car door?" Wash said, mouth twitching slightly. Judging by York's stories, he had a preference for lockpicks even when it didn't make sense.

"Not in a public parking lot. Last time I did I nearly got arrested. So awkward."

"I see."

The car smelt faintly of booze. Wash wondered if York had driven home drunk a lot or whether he'd just spilled a lot on the car seats.

"Alright. So... is there actually anywhere you're heading?"

Wash didn't say anything.

"You leave anything at a shelter or something?"

Wash just looked down and shook his head.

"Alright, you can crash at my house until you get a job or something. Actually, I might know a good job, so as long as we get you looking presentable, maybe find some fake teeth or build up some strength—"

"No."

"What?"

"No. I don't need a place to stay. Excuse me." Wash reached out to open the door only to find that York had locked the doors. "Okay, I knew you were a kidnapper."

"Oh, that hurts," York sighed. "Look, I'm not a kidnapper. I'll unlock the door in a minute. Just hear me out. I want to help, okay?"

"I don't want help."

"Wash—"

"Look, I don't want your help!" Wash shouted abruptly, turning back to York. "I don't want anyone's help! I can't deal with people turning up, dropping 'help' into my lap and then demanding back far more than what I can give. I can't deal with people helping me just enough to keep me going and then tossing me back into a worse shitstorm than before."

"I wasn't asking for anything in retur—"

"Bullshit." Wash stopped shouting after that, because York looked like he'd been slapped in the face. So instead he took a deep breath and continued in a level, but bitter, tone. "There's always a catch. Especially when something's being offered by some complete stranger who has no reason to be nice. I don't know why you insisted on driving me to the hospital or why you turned up everyday only to sit there and talk, but it's not normal."

Words just kept pouring out. Because he was angry about the last couple of years. He was afraid that everything would pile up again, and afraid of help because all it did was trick him into thinking things might be alright before they went to shit again. He felt guilty because all he could think of was Carolina and how he could have prevented her death and how York had to live with Wash's failure, even if he didn't know it.

"I can't... I just can't deal with it! You might say there's no catch, but there will be. And when you call in that debt it'll be something that I can't give. Whatever happens, I'll deal with it on my own. Whatever that entails. Then the only person I'll owe or have to blame will be myself. So just... leave me alone, okay?"

The silence after Wash finished was so thick that he couldn't have cut it with a knife. His hands were balled into fists and he was looking downwards again. York stared ahead, hands on the steering wheel. Then York let out a long breath.

"And I thought Carolina had trust issues," he said quietly. "But guess you're right on the 'not normal' aspect of it. Still not a kidnapper, though."

"You sure? Because I notice you still haven't unlocked the car doors."

York didn't reply. He just kept staring ahead, fingers drumming absently on the steering wheel.

"I mean... I guess I just..." York fumbled for a couple more moments before saying, "Why wouldn't I help you? It's not as if I have anyone else to—" He stopped, shut his eyes for a moment and opened them again before continuing. "I mean, really, I'm the one paying you back."

"How. All I've ever done is steal a taco from you at gunpoint," Wash muttered, glaring at the window and wondering how hard it would be to punch through it.

"You took care of Carolina's grave for me." York laughed a little and added, "I'd wondered who had been leaving flowers there. I've never really seen anyone but Tex there before. It stuck out. I think she would have appreciated it. Uh, you almost vomiting on her aside."

"Leaving a bunch of flowers that I stole from someone's front garden every now and then isn't something you repay people for."

"Yeah, well... I got reasons. Not good ones, but who really cares?" York shrugged. "Who cares as long as you get help? Because seriously, I've got damn functional eyes, Wash. When I saw you at the graveyard, or near the road... or even when you were pointing that gun at my face—not cool, by the way—I could see that whatever is going on with you... it's fucking you up, man."

"It wasn't as bad as—"

"You were shaking, you couldn't stand, you've got all these weird scars on your arms and missing teeth... You were desperate enough to hold me at gunpoint for a goddamn taco. Plus, you were sick enough for a two-month hospital visit!"

"And now I'm not. I'm fine. I don't want help."

"That doesn't mean you don't need it. Look, maybe you can't trust me and if you never do, that's fine. I can deal with that. But I can help. I want to help, no strings attached. But if you don't want me to..." York removed his hands from the steering wheel and unlocked the car door. After fiddling around with Wash's bag for a moment, he handed it back to him. "Just promise me you'll find help from someone, okay?"

Wash said nothing. Though he hesitated before climbing out and leaving.

York didn't drive off until long after Wash had left.

 

* * *

 

Wash wandered back to his old alleyway. The ginger cat had taken it over again. Wash made a halfhearted attempt at chasing it off, but instead it decided to scratch his shoes. Wash gave up fast and wandered off again.

He already regretted shouting at York. He wished he hadn't left so fast. York had been the first person he'd had proper conversation with in years. But it was better that way. Cut the connection now.

Back to dealing with no-one but himself. It was just safer that way.

As he wandered, he passed the graveyard. He realised he was at the road that York had found him at. He looked at the cars passing by.

He thought about half-eaten burgers and being pushed around by hobos and grumpy cats. He thought about the mountain of debt, which had only gotten bigger. He thought about how he still didn't have a way out.

No. He did have a way out. He just didn't want to take it.

He didn't want to trust York. It would be like handing him a knife and turning his back. Wash reached into his bag instinctively to check on his knife. It was there. But next to it he felt a piece of paper. He pulled it out of the bag and examined it.

A phone number. And underneath was scribbled, 'Coupon for Free Help.'

Smartass bastard.

Wash stared at the message for a while, occasionally glancing back at the road.

...What was he afraid of? Betrayal? Was that worth giving up a chance at finding the way out of this mess? Debt? He was already drowning in it, would it even make a difference? Pride? After lying in a graveyard covered in vomit and sobbing, he couldn't even pretend he had that anymore.

After a few minutes of consideration, Wash turned his back on the road and walked off in search of a phone box.

Fuck it. It was worth the risk.

He found a phone box. He had to borrow change off a stranger. He promised himself it would be the last time.

Ring.

Ring.

"Hello?"

"...I, um. I need a place to crash," Wash muttered awkwardly. There was a pause, then a small chuckle.

"No problem. Tell me where you are."

 

* * *

 

Wash couldn't put his finger on it, but something about York's home seemed very empty. It was a nice place, but slightly dusty in the corners and it just had the air of being a bit abandoned. York seemed to notice this as he walked in behind Wash.

"When was the last time I cleaned? Uh, you allergic to dust mites or anything?"

"No."

"Awesome."

What also made the house look a bit empty was that there were a lot of empty surfaces. As Wash looked at the coffee table and the nearby shelves, he realised there were also no photographs anywhere. Meanwhile, York was grinning and bouncing around far too much for someone who'd, essentially, kidnapped a homeless man with weird kindness.

Wash glanced at the floor and wondered if York secretly had a basement for people, too. Though whatever York's motive, it seemed much less sinister.

"So, uh... you probably want to switch clothes, right?" York gestured at Wash's clothes, which although cleaner than they had been before the hospital were still the same set of clothes that he'd been wearing for the past year. Wash tugged nervously at the sleeves of his grey jacket and shrugged. "Well, there's gotta be something. Okay, you go in the bathroom, maybe shave off your hobo beard—you look like hobo Santa Claus, seriously—and I'll find something for you to wear that doesn't smell like dog sweat. No offence."

"None taken."

York pointed him towards the bathroom before wandering off, humming under his breath.

It took Wash a while to shave (at most, he'd only ever had to shave stubble before) but he noticed that his hands were entirely steady as he did so. No tremors for now. Good. Still, looking into the mirror was a surreal experience. He hadn't looked into one properly for a long time. He didn't remember his hair having so much grey in it or his eyes having such dark shadows underneath them. He ran a hand through the greying hair, which was still far longer than it should have been, and frowned at his reflection. He had more wrinkles around his eyes than he used to, too, and they scrunched up as he glared at himself.

"Bet you look way better without the creepy beard. More presentable, you'll go way better with this job thing," York called from the other room.

"Jobs aren't easy things to find. Not for nutters."

"Cheer up. I already found you one."

"...How do you even—" Apparently York was some kind of magic genie.

"As you might recall, the warden at the prison I work at is absolutely barkers. The plus side is he'll hire people as long as they can wave a nightstick well and pretend to agree on his weird colour war thing. He won't even look at your health records or medication. Just nod, agree that blue is a horrible colour and you're in. Knowing him, he'll consider the missing teeth as 'battle scars' and be twice as enthusiastic. Maybe hold off until you build a bit of muscle. Shouldn't be hard, you've been a guard, right? Ah, found some clothes!"

"Wha—wait, don't come in—"

York pushed the door open, throwing some folded up clothes at him. "Here you go! Oh hey, you actually look alright without the beard. Gotta do something about the hippy hair, though." York glanced downwards at the multitude of scars that covered Wash's arms, chest, back and patches of his legs. His grin vanished. "Oh jeez, I thought it was just the arms."

Wash's only response was to edge backwards and started pulling on the clothes, not looking up as he did so. "It's nothing."

"Uh... did someone do that to you?"

"York! Just... stop." Wash finished yanking the pants on and started fiddling with the shirt. "It's... look, I don't want to talk about it. Just... just pretend you never saw anything." When York went silent, Wash added quietly, "Please."

York let out a long sigh before looking away. "Give me the shirt back. I'll find you one with long sleeves."

"...Thank you."

 

* * *

 

_"York never questioned my scars again. He proceeded to never ask about any of my odd behavior, like when I screamed and yelled for him to turn the lights back on the first time he turned the lights off in the house, or that I regularly wandered outside and slept on the porch when things got too claustrophobic for me inside._

_"The only thing he said about it was, 'if you ever want to tell me, you'll tell me.' I never told him. If I started to explain, where did I stop?_

_"I kept insisting that I would move out right away. I just needed that job. But York insisted that I build some muscle first, just to make sure it was a job I could handle. It made sense, I was nowhere near the physical condition I'd been before the basement._

_"Before, exercise and building up strength had just been a requirement for the job. Now it became something to focus on. If I was strong, I couldn't be pushed around. I would never be just a... just a drain on resources. So I wouldn't have to be 'idiot Wash, who gets foiled by paintballs and lets his friends die.'_

_"A few months went by before I was deemed strong enough to go for the job as a prison guard. York was right. It was easy. Sarge looked at me, asked me a few questions primarily based around if I'd ever fought someone in any context and what my opinion on the colours red, blue and purple were, and proceeded to hire me on the spot. It took me a couple months more to find a place of my own to live again. York said I could have stayed longer, but I just... I didn't want to impose._

_"Every day, I waited for him to suddenly announce that I owed him for everything. Because I did. I owed him more than words could ever say. To him, maybe it really was just a bit of company, a place to crash and knowing a guy mad enough to hire me. But... I know I could never pay him back."_

 

* * *

 

"Why are you putting down beer?"

"Why are you putting down flowers?" York pulled a face at Wash before placing a bottle of beer on Carolina's grave. "It's her favourite brand of beer, can you say that about the flowers?"

"I'm pretty sure the undertaker just takes the beer once we're gone. I never saw beer bottles here before," Wash said, kneeling down and dropping flowers on the dirt.

"Yeah, but hey. You can drink beer in spirit. Besides, tradition. Ugh, whoever the undertaker is, he's doing a terrible job. Look at these weeds. Help me out, will you?"

If Wash could have thought of a reason not to be there, he would have. He had no problem with visiting Carolina's grave by himself. But he didn't like to with York.

Because York acted casual about it, almost like Carolina was alive and he was just tidying her room or something. But there was always a slightly forced tone to it. He'd smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

Wash always pretended he didn't notice. Just like how York pretended that Wash had no scars.

 

* * *

 

_"I felt gratitude for all the shit he put up with just by helping me out. But I still felt guilty for how much trouble I'd caused him, and for not being able to help Carolina. And I felt ashamed for having to crawl to him for help, no matter how many times he waved this off and said that everyone needed help sometimes._

_"All that guilt and shame and gratitude... all the anger and loathing for the people who'd messed me up and murdered Carolina... over the next few years, I thought I'd put it behind me. But I hadn't. It just festered really deep down._

_"Until Omega—O'Malley—turned up again._

_"I didn't recognise him by appearance, but... and this is the stupidest thing ever... he was in front of me in a line at the grocery store. I heard him speak and I knew that voice immediately. I thought I was hallucinating. That I needed to go back on medication. But it was coming from the man in front of me. The man with red hair who was smiling so casually at first, but the moment he heard me yelp and turned around, I... I knew. I just knew I wasn't mistaken._

_"I... I flipped the fuck out, to be honest. Tackled him and refused to let go. Yelled incomprehensibly until the cops showed up, then yelled some more._

_"They thought I was nuts. But I think the incident inspired an investigation, because they ended up checking his house. They found the human remains hidden in his basement. So O'Malley went to prison. To this prison. I wondered if that was a coincidence or not._

_"But with O'Malley, everything came back. All the memories and feelings I thought I'd put behind me, all it had taken was a familiar voice to bring it back in full force. And with it came the strongest obsession I've ever experienced._

_"I knew Sigma was dead and Theta had been a snitch for the Director, but as far as I knew at the time the others were still at large. I fixated on this. I wanted them to pay for what they'd done. And I wanted to be the one to do it._

_"I researched any crimes that had the slightest chance of being done by them in the last ten years. I kept doing so right up until this day. There's a room in my apartment that is filled with nothing but newspaper clippings and printouts and diagrams and phone books... I just wanted to find them and beat them so badly._

_"It wasn't as if finding them would have fixed everything that was wrong with me. It wasn't as if it would make me stronger. It wasn't as if it would bring Carolina back. But I just couldn't let it go. And I never even tried to. Because they fucking deserved whatever I could do to them._

_"I tried to torture the locations of the others out of O'Malley. Yes, Doc, right here in the prison. I threw him in SHU without even waiting for reasons. I 'forgot' to bring him his food. I mixed up his medication on purpose. Even cornered him a couple of times and just beat the crap out of him. Just anything to make him crack without people knowing._

_"He never cracked._

_"I lost my chance at a couple of them. O'Malley did recently tell me that Gamma was dead. I don't know if it's really true, but he didn't really have a reason to lie. I know for a fact that Meta is dead. I turned my attention on the guy who killed him instead, Donut, because I had to know how he managed it. I kept luring him into dangerous situations just to see what special quality he had that would let him take down a juggernaut like the Meta._

_"I never found that out, either._

_"Through all this, all I managed to do was hurt York._

_"The first time, O'Malley damaged his eye. I don't know if it was in retaliation for me torturing him. Maybe it was just for shits and giggles. But nonetheless... it happened. York didn’t know what O’Malley was like. I’d left O’Malley injured, beat him down and left him there, and York had turned up and tried to help him up. O'Malley grabbed that chance._

_"That was the first time my obsession with this hurt York. But I didn't learn. I rationalized it away as O'Malley just being a violent asshole._

_"But it happened again recently. I... I told some things to the zealots, and they went after Donut. I hadn't even meant for York to get involved, but... but he did. Then those damn zealots attacked him, and the only reason he's not dead is because of the same guy I was trying to hurt._

_"This time... well, there was no way for me to rationalize it. It was my fault._

_"York saved my life and all I've done since is endanger his._

_"That's why I came here, Doc. Because I hate therapy. I hate talking to people about this. I don't like people knowing what goes on up here. I hate people thinking I'm crazy. I hate wondering if I am crazy._

_"But that doesn't matter. Because I have to let it go. Maybe it'll take a long time. Maybe I'll never really let it go and it'll just go back to festering inside me until one day I snap and bludgeon O'Malley to death._

“ _But I have to try. Because I've already been responsible for enough of York's problems in the past. And I'll be damned before I let myself cause any more."_


End file.
